


Darkness Will Rise from the Deep

by Zdenka



Category: Völsunga saga | Saga of the Volsungs
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonconsensual werewolf transformation, Revenge, Wolves, background Siggeir/Signy, foresight, implied Signy/Sigmund
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Signy forges a sword.
Relationships: Sigmundr Völsungsson & Signý Völsungsdóttir, Signý Völsungsdóttir & Sinfjötli Sigmundarson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Darkness Will Rise from the Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



> The title is from Heather Dale's song "Mordred's Lullaby," which describes a mother raising her child as a weapon for revenge in a way that reminds me of Signy.

As she passes through the great hall, Signy stops beside the trunk of the living tree that grows in the center. She and her brothers played under it as children, tussling and laughing together; she sat comfortably curled up in the shelter of its roots, watching her father give judgements or her mother polish her weapons. Her new-made husband is waiting; her brothers and father are eager to escort her to the ship that will take her to her husband’s land. Still, she lingers for a moment and lays her hand softly on the tree’s rough bark, imagining she can feel the strong, slow movements of sap through its veins. _Please,_ she prays silently. _Please, Mother Frigg and all the dísir. Let me see this house again._ But when she looks into the hearthfire, she sees only the great hall desolate, dry leaves skittering across the floor; the tree in the center of the hall grows tall and strong, raising its trunk and leafy branches over the holes in the decaying roof. And she knows that her fate will not allow her to return here.

~

Signy is six years old the first time she sees visions in the fire. She is curled up on a cushion at her mother’s feet, staring sleepily into the hearth. Suddenly she laughs aloud, because what she saw seemed so strange.

“Signy, why did you laugh?” her mother asks.

Signy points at the fire, though the image is gone. “I saw a crow, and it dropped an apple into a man’s lap! I never saw a crow do that.”

Her mother is silent, so Signy turns to look at her. Mother sighs and sits down beside Signy, gazing into the fire. “Do you have that gift, child? Sometimes it comes to those with giants’ blood in their veins. I have no foresight myself, but I have never wished for it. Allfather says that those who cannot foresee their fate live freest from care.”

“Giants’ blood?”

Mother nods. “My father was a giant from the frozen lands,” she says matter-of-factly. “He could change his shape, or see glimpses of the future in the fall of runestones. But I have no such gifts; my skills are with spear and shield, feeding Odin’s ravens.”

Signy’s eyes are wide. “Does Father know?”

Mother laughs. “Of course. He knows that, and also that I was Odin’s wish-maiden before I married him.”

Signy considers this. If she were a warrior of Odin, she would not leave for anything. “Then . . . why did you marry him?”

Her mother smiles a little. “Because Warfather wished it.”

Signy sits up abruptly. “Odin did? But didn’t you want to marry Father?”

Her mother’s smile grows fonder. “I did, Signy-child. I had seen him fight. I knew your father was a great hero, brave and true to his word. Any wish-maiden might choose him for Valhalla and never be ashamed of her choice. And I like him well.

“If Odin had wished it, I would have kept to the battlefield all my days. But I am not sorry! I have ten brave sons and you, my wise one. And I serve Warfather here too. When he calls me back, I will return.”

Signy is still trying to understand.

“A woman’s womb is the forge of heroes,” Mother says matter-of-factly. “Warfather needs the bravest of the brave, those who will never flinch from the sword’s edge or from fire. He sends his wish-maidens to gather them on the battlefield and bring them to Valhalla.”

Signy does not understand all of her mother’s words, but she keeps them stored away in her mind like a mail-coat that she will someday need.

~

Her mother leaves when Signy is ten years old. She puts her arms around each of her children and kisses them on the forehead. Signy is the youngest, born half an hour after her twin brother, and Mother embraces her last. As she turns away, Signy grasps frantically at her sleeve. “Mother,” she pleads, “don’t go.”

Mother smooths her hair affectionately. “I must, Signy dear. But you will have your father and brothers to look after you. You must take care of them too, my wise one! I think there is nothing the Volsungs cannot do if they are united in heart.”

Signy will not cry; she is Volsung’s daughter. She watches the leave-taking with clear eyes. Her mother embraces her father for the last time, giving him a lingering kiss on the mouth. Mother bends close and whispers something in Father’s ear, too quietly for any of them to hear. Father smiles grimly, his eyes alight. “I will greet it gladly. I swear to you, I will never flee from a battle.”

And then they step back from each other, and Mother is putting on her helmet. Sigmund reaches out and grips Signy’s hand tightly. She squeezes back, and it is a great comfort to her as Mother takes her spear and shield and goes out the door. A breeze blows through the open door, stirring the leaves of the living house-tree. And Signy knows suddenly what it was that her mother said to her father: “Son of the War-god’s line, we will meet again in the hour of your death.”

~

“What do you think, Signy?” her father asks indulgently. “Does Siggeir suit you as a husband?”

Signy is troubled and cannot say why. She cannot love him on so little acquaintance, but King Siggeir does not seem cowardly or ugly. She rather likes the look of him, with his red beard and strong shoulders. He was bested by her brother in pulling the sword from the tree, but few warriors in the world are equal to Sigmund. If he will keep faith with her father and brothers, if he treats her with honor, she will be a loyal wife to him.

Before she answers, she looks into the fire that burns in her chamber. She sees it in flashes: her father smiling grimly as the blood trickles down his face—Sigmund struggling furiously in his bonds; she cannot hear his words, but he is shouting in rage—and then a heavy axe is raised over his head—

Signy wrenches her head away, recoiling so quickly that she knocks over her footstool. “No,” she says. “I cannot marry Siggeir. No.”

“What is it now?” her father asks, exasperated. “You seemed to like him well enough before.” Signy can only shake her head frantically. Her father has never put stock in her visions; Volsung Rerir’s son believes in the heavy sword in his hand, in what he can see and hear.

Her father frowns. “I have given him my word, my daughter. To refuse Siggeir now would be a grave insult. And I do not break my bond.” She does not speak, and he strides out of the room.

Signy sinks back into her seat, her face turned away from the leaping fire. She would like to be a queen, to rule her own house. But not at the cost of her dear ones. Never, never.

Sigmund finds her not long after and kneels to take her hands in his. “What is it, sister mine?” he asks coaxingly. “Do you dislike Siggeir? An alliance with him would add great strength to us; he leads many bold warriors. And he has given father many fine gifts.”

Signy looks up, meeting his eyes. Sigmund knows about her visions; she has no secrets from her twin brother. “I do not dislike him,” she admits. “But I foresee evil to our family if I marry him.”

Sigmund laughs brightly. “A man like Siggeir cannot hurt us. Do you think he could beat our father in a fair fight? I think I could trounce him myself if it came to it.” He grins, and Signy smiles reluctantly.

“It’s true,” she says. “But I will be in a land far away—”

Sigmund’s expression grows serious. “Signy my sister, Siggeir will never be able to keep us away from you. If he harms even one of your hairs or treads on your favorite robe, send a messenger, and the Volsungs will come to you. He can never hide you so well that we will not find you. If any danger threatens you, I will come to you, I swear it.”

Signy’s heart feels lighter. Not all visions are destined to come to pass, she tells herself. And if she marries Siggeir, she will be there by his side to resolve any quarrels between him and her family. When her father asks her again, she agrees to marry Siggeir.

~

Signy stands at the ship’s rail, watching the land recede. Her brothers and father are lined up on the beach. Sigmund is waving frantically, and Signy smiles despite herself. Her brother, her twin, her other half. _Let the Volsungs be united, and no danger will overwhelm you._ So her mother told them, holding her youngest two on her lap, both of them eager to hear stories of heroes. Whatever comes, her bond with Sigmund is sure and will not shatter, nor can distance weaken it.

Her father raises his hand in farewell, then turns to mount his horse. Her brothers follow in an untidy mass, jostling and pushing at each other in friendly rivalry. Sigmund waves once more, then he too follows their father.

The land is farther away now, the trees small as a child’s toy. She hears footsteps on the deck and turns to see Siggeir. Siggeir has been in a good mood this morning, laughing and trading jokes with his men as they readied the ship for departure. He still seems pleased, having gotten his way. “Tell me, wife. What should I do to make your brother hand over that sword?”

“Nothing,” Signy says unsmiling. “My brother Sigmund does not part with what is dear to him. If it is taken from him, he will go to any lengths to get it back.”

Siggeir frowns at her, uncertain. Then he laughs and strokes her cheek. “You will see, my wife. I too can be stubborn in pursuing what I want.”

~

The battle is joined on the shore. Signy dreams of it for years, waking with a choked scream: her father with his ten sons beside him, and all his warriors standing boldly—but too few, far too few. And facing them, Siggeir’s army: coming on and on, a swelling wave of spears and helms. The smooth sand is trampled over and over; the ocean froth is red.

Siggeir stands on a heap of rocks, commanding the battle. Two of his men hold Signy back, so that she cannot go to her father and brothers. She can only watch.

Signy cannot see what her father sees, when he suddenly looks up with strange joy. But when he leaps into the battle again, he moves with the strength of a much younger man, and there is a fey light in his eyes. She knows that he is leaving her. They promised they would always be with her, but they are leaving her here all alone.

She screams in denial, but the clash of battle drowns out what she would say.

~

She is watched, day and night. Day by day, she makes plans in vain. Night by night, her brothers die. Signy bites back the screams of grief and rage that rise in her throat. She is Volsung’s daughter, and she will not weep.

On the tenth night, a wanderer rests by Siggeir’s hearthfire; an old woman, gaunt and ragged, but with fierce bright eyes. Signy feels a strangeness in the air when she passes the old woman, a tang like frost in the air. No one else seems to notice, but Signy does not doubt what she sensed.

That night, she bids her maids wait outside and summons the old woman to her chamber. “Please,” she asks, though she has never begged. “Help me to save my last brother.”

The sorceress only laughs. “The blood and magic of frost-giants run in your veins, as they do in mine. You do not truly need my help.” She bites her own finger, draws blood, and traces runes in the air. Each rune seems to burn itself into Signy’s mind, trailing fire.

Signy catches her breath. After a moment, she says, “Siggeir will notice if I am not by his side.”

The sorceress smiles, revealing sharp teeth. She traces another rune, and a twin image of Signy is standing there. “Go tonight,” the false Signy says. “If you wait another night, it will be too late.”

Signy runs. When she reaches the edge of the woods, she clenches her fists until her nails bite into her palms, drawing blood. She lets her human clothing fall to the ground and draws the bloody runes on her skin. She thought the change would be difficult, but it is only like stepping from inside the house to outside, or changing from one robe to another. She is a wolf, and she runs on swift paws, following the scent of her blood kin.

Sigmund is there; his feet caught fast in the wooden stocks, his face pale and drawn. When he sees her, he straightens, straining uselessly against the wood. He is grim, ready to sell his life dearly.

She runs to him and licks his face. Her brother, her twin, her last family. Sigmund looks at her in puzzled recognition. “Sister?”

Signy licks him again. And then she bites him, hard. Sigmund’s body jerks and twists in the stocks; she can feel the power take hold of him, altering skin and bone, until the transformation is complete.

Sigmund’s changed body slides easily out of his fetters; he stands before her as a wolf, his shape twin to her own. They sniff each other, lick each other’s muzzles. Signy stands with her ears pricked alert, her mouth open in a wolfish grin, as her brother runs free into the forest.

~

They meet for snatched moments in secret, when Signy can slip away. Sigmund meets her in human form, somehow ashamed of taking wolf-form before her. Her brother has grown fey and fierce; he is thinner, though she brings him food when she can, and he tells her he has been hunting—whether as man or wolf she does not know. She does not dare embrace him, much as she longs to.

Sigmund wants to attack Siggeir as soon as he recovers his strength. “Bring me a sword,” he says wild-eyed, “and I will cut him down even in the midst of his war-band.”

Signy seizes his arm. “Listen to me,” she says fiercely. “You did not listen before, and I let myself yield to ill counsel. Trust in my foresight. Siggeir has a band of strong warriors. If you attack him alone, you will die.”

Sigmund is silent for a few moments. But he sees her now, not his imagined visions of blood and death. “Give me a good companion,” he says finally. “A son of Volsung’s blood. If he is true to Volsung, that will be enough.”

In time, Signy gives Siggeir two sons. When they are old enough she sends them to Sigmund, as she would give all she has.

“He was a coward,” was all Sigmund would say each time.

With the first son and then with the second, Signy does not hesitate. “Then kill him.”

~

Siggeir roars and tears his beard when the children’s bodies are discovered. He demands to know how this could have happened and sends his men to search. Some of the searchers do not return. The others, pale and terrified, only report falteringly that the boys must have been killed by a great wolf.

Signy dresses their small bodies for the funeral pyre and does not weep. They might have betrayed Sigmund, babbling to their father, and so they had to die. Worse, they have betrayed her, by failing Sigmund’s tests of courage. Their mother is true-hearted, but their father is a traitor. She should have known. You cannot make a good sword from poor metal.

She sends word to the sorceress and asks her aid one more time.

Shape-changed, the sorceress resembles Signy so closely that only her mother might have been able to tell the difference between them. Siggeir surely will not. Signy enters the friendly darkness of the woods and runs wolf-swift to find the one living man she still trusts.

Sigmund has a sheltering den under the earth; a poor dwelling-place for a Volsung, but to Signy it is better than Siggeir’s halls decked in gold. Sigmund is there to welcome her, Sigmund who has never turned her away. When she lies in Sigmund’s arms, she feels strangely safe, sheltered and protected for the first time in years. The rustling leaves above them could be the hearth-tree of Volsung’s hall. She only meant to stay a single night, but somehow she lets one night stretch into three nights and the two days in between. For that brief time, Signy can almost forget that she is nothing but the hammer and anvil for making a sword.

~

Signy has rarely smiled since her father’s death, but she smiles now, holding her son in her arms. Her Volsung son, her wolf-child. She traces his tiny arms, the shape of his nose. Out of this weak and fragile instrument, she will forge a sword of vengeance.

Sinfjotli grows fine and strong, more like his father by the day. Even before he can speak, Signy sings him the lays of strong warriors, loyal brothers, sons taking vengeance for fathers. He must learn his task early. She does not comfort him when he falls, still learning to walk, and scratches his hands on the rough stone. She strides to him, picks him up and sets him on his feet again. The boy is looking at his scraped palms, his face twisting as if he might cry.

“Do not cry, Sinfjotli,” she says firmly. “A warrior must learn to bear pain.” He looks up at her, his eyes—Sigmund’s eyes—so serious. She thinks he understands her.

She is proud of Sinfjotli; how could she not be? But she cannot love him. Siggeir is death-doomed and does not know it, like a tree that stands tall but is consumed with hidden rot. And her own span of life is bound to his. Signy has sent two sons to their death; she has no love left for this, her true son. But her heart is growing weary. Sinfjotli is the one who will set her free.

~

Sinfjotli will grow up to be a warrior worthy of the Volsung name. It is the goal she strives toward, like an archer straining to keep the bowstring pulled back, waiting to release the arrow until his aim is true. Sinfjotli is taught to fight, of course, with sword and spear and axe. Signy pulls him from his bed at night and makes him practice over and over again, carefully correcting any mistakes, until he is far in advance of any child his age. She bids him hold heavy weights until his arms shake, endure pain and hunger and thirst. He obeys every command, delighting in the challenge, and she sees him become the stronger for it. As a reward, she tells him stories of Volsung and his wife Hljod, Rerir and Sigi, while he sits and listens with shining eyes. He tolerates his supposed father, but it is his mother’s approval that he looks for. Sinfjotli is the sword she is forging, she reminds herself. She cannot be merciful.

When Sinfjotli is ten years old, she knows it is time to send him to Sigmund. She has no fear of the outcome; Sinfjotli is a true Volsung and he will pass any test Sigmund sets him. Sigmund will take his son as his companion, teach him what he needs to know. And Sinfjotli will not come back to her until it is the time for taking vengeance.

Her hands linger on his shoulders. It is harder than she thought to send him away. A moment only, then she hardens her heart and takes up the needle and thread to sew the boy’s sleeves closed. She deliberately passes the needle through his skin and flesh, but Sinfjotli does not flinch. “This pain would be nothing to Volsung,” he declares. He speaks proudly; she has raised him well.

There is a fuss afterwards, when they notice Sinfjotli is missing. At Siggeir’s orders, the servants turn the halls upside-down, searching everywhere. Signy sits in her chamber, stitching, and lets the whirlwind pass her by.

At last Siggeir comes to confront her. “Where is my son?” he demands.

“I know nothing of your son,” she says tranquilly, meeting his eyes. Sinfjotli is no son of his.

“You are lying, woman!”

“The children of Volsung do not lie.”

Siggeir storms and blusters, but it doesn’t matter. He will not find Sigmund and Sinfjotli, her two wolves—until they come to find him.

~

At last, at last it is done. Sigmund’s triumphant cry rings out: “We want you to know that not all the Volsungs are dead.” Sigmund and Sinfjotli together take vengeance for Volsung, and Siggeir’s hall blazes over him. Her long task finished, Signy embraces each of them, her brother and her son, and kisses them for the last time.

When Sigmund and Sinfjotli call to her to come out of the fire, Signy will not go. She too is a sword. And there is no more use for a weapon when the battle is done. She closes her eyes and lets her long-held burden slip from her shoulders. When she opens them again and looks into the flames, for once she sees nothing at all.


End file.
